The shy young girl

an invite to a buzzy West End partyafter the football game, whereyou’ll ‘mingle with the stars’and when you get there, all glammed upand wearing your Saturday best,you glimpse, beyond a velvet, guarded rope,the ‘stars’ you just won’t mingle with –those ‘celebs’ with not too much to doexcept to party and be photographed,‘stars’ who’re hoping thus…

One who kills for the sake of democracy?One who kills for the sake of oil?

of the iceberg lettuce which candisturb hearing aidsif you’re into fartsy additional vegchop them up small and sprinkleit saves the whole edifice deconstructingwhen you take the pin outthen a slice say an inch thickof wholemeal bread whichyou’ve soaked in olive oil and lemon juiceand rubbed garlic across as ifyou were ironing the curtainsof a dolls’…

for the mind: oh look Dad,there’s a scarecrow in that fieldthat looks just like a man, does itreally scare crows?Oh look Dad, there’s a beggar in the streetwho looks just like a scarecrow,I wonder if the same crowssee him too?But metaphor – ah, that’s something else:explanations don’t quite explain it:you see something; it brings to…

that speaks of ‘unity’?And then how many more,before we hear such conceptsas ‘non-duality’ or ‘advaita’, as ‘not two’?Yet something in us has now, tucked away,the memory of that moment after birthwhen that unbounded birthright, love in usfirst sensed that same unbounded lovein the one who held us close;murmured some strange wordswhose meaning was all in…

that I would recommenda metaphysical health check:a subtle X-ray or better still, a Why-raymight show up something inthe spleen or in the bile ductbefore it’s too late forpoetic irony orpoetic justice